


Poem in Prose

by JustAGirl24



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death from Old Age, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGirl24/pseuds/JustAGirl24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortality:  A love story from beginning to (one) end.</p><p>Written for J/B Appreciation Week, prompt "Moment you fell in love."  I may have only touched on that part.  (Yes, it's a little sad but hopefully in the good kind of way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poem in Prose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> Many thanks go to ikkiM, who helped make this so much better.

_Reclusive,_ she’d been called for years. _Introverted. Cerebral._ An acclaimed author at a relatively young age, Brienne had been labeled a modern ee cummings by some, and her hermit-like ways were given a blind eye or an indulgent smile.  _Plain_ and _shy_ she’d been called by the less charitable, _antisocial_ and _ugly_ by the unkind—these words came chiefly before her successes, but occasionally after as well.

She remembers when reporter Jaime Lannister first entered her life, when all of those word—the indulgent and the less charitable and the unkind alike—and the insecurities that accompanied them had been hurled at her during their first interview, laughing tones somehow soothing and inflaming her at once, like honeyed barbs.  _Different than the others, but more provoking for all that._

Follow-up interviews came— _the public is dying to know more about you,_ her editor pled—and for some reason she couldn’t quantify, she was less reluctant to talk to Jaime than she was any other reporter she’d come across.  His words sunk deeper under her skin with each subsequent exchange; she came to the startling realization that she enjoyed their bantering, that here was one person she looked forward to seeing for some unknown reason.

The moment she first laughed in his presence—some idiotic joke she wishes she could remember now, all these years later—he’d looked at her with eyes lit up like a Midfest tree (forest green with glints of light), and his mouth had quirked at the corners, a secret delight he’d been unable to keep to himself.

The moment she first considered him a friend, she’d finished reading his article from their latest interview.  He’d listened to her ramblings about growing up on Tarth Island—clearly some tangent that was well off his prepared questions—and asked her meaningful questions that indicated he seemed to truly care about the answer.  And while the _emotional_ factor that so many reporters loved to exploit—in this instance, her tears as she remembered the father whom she loved so much, the more personal nature of her stories—had been given to him on a silver platter, he had handled the words she’d gifted him in a compelling but respectful manner.

The moment she realized she’d fallen in love with him, she could still remember with crystal clarity.  He’d arrived at their latest interview, perfectly pressed and dressed, but there was something _raw_ about him that she couldn’t explain—was it the _tap-tap-tapping_ of his fingers on his knee, the muscle ticking in his jaw, his seeming inability to look at her?  He’d set his recorder on the small table between them and pressed play, but she’d reached out to touch his hand in concern at his uncharacteristic turmoil.  He stilled, eyes meeting hers, and she _knew_. Knew like the wind knew the sea and the trees knew the sun and the snow knew the mountains.  There was no refuting it, it just _was_. She’d felt her face flush crimson, her breath stutter short.  _Should she pull away? Did he_ see _it in her? Would he be disgusted if he did?_ It hadn’t mattered. Before she could pull in a breath, his mouth had been on hers, and all she’d known was _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime,_ and she’d breathed him in, and she _knew_ —they would be solid like the rock, warm like the sun, endless like the sea.

Romance came into her quiet, lonely life—a sense of rightness she’d thought gone with the last of her family, a peace she’d been unable to find in the septs, a fullness that her meager acquaintances hadn’t given.  Marriage followed (a proposal both unexpected and not), a home with two offices ( _I refuse to share a desk with you,_ she’d declared), a bedroom where their greatest masterpieces had been conceived (Florian and Jonquil, and he’d laughed and laughed but eventually agreed to the names, eyes lit up like a Midfest tree in the way she loved so well), a Labrador she _had_ been willing to share when their nest became empty—and woven through it all, his interviews and investigations, her poetry and prose, their scattered collaborations at the continued nudging of her editor. 

She remembers when they knew their time together was coming to an end (I’m sorry to leave you alone, love, but I’m still selfish enough to be glad it wasn’t me) _,_ and they’d shared a watery laugh, hands clasped tight.

His last gift to her had been a box filled with tapes and transcripts of their interviews, the articles about her he’d written, and he’d said _It’s time to write one last book, don’t you think?_   She’d tried not to cry too hard, head bowed and tears falling on their joined hands, a silent nod to him, to them.  She kept the words she wanted desperately to say (I want to never be away from you. I want you to live forever) stuffed in her mouth, a secret her eyes couldn’t keep but one they’d both shared long ago.

She remembers saying goodbye the next day, their children joining her in holding his hands, Jaime’s last shallow breaths the only sound in the room until finally there was only silence.

Days passed in a blur, and she wished, _oh how she wished,_ to see his smile again, his eyes lit up like a Midfest tree.  She began to see her wish come true as she remembered, _Jonquil has his smile. Florian has the same eyes._

Brienne sat down with her last gift from Jaime, remembered and wrote the story of her life, _their life,_ and realized—her longing had been answered, and that elusive immortality she’d so desperately wanted was right here all along.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Poet" by Bastille. The whole song is applicable, but I love the chorus:
> 
> I have written you down  
> Now you will live forever  
> And all the world will read you  
> And you will live forever  
> In eyes not yet created  
> On tongues that are not born
> 
> Also inspired by my father, whose immortality was ensured many years ago.


End file.
